Therefore they started up several groups of animals that were either feeding near the river or were drinking—a second small herd of antelopes (or possibly the same herd they had caught a glimpse of before), a pair of red deer, coyotes uncounted, and some animal that went crashing off through the willows, which they did not see, but which Dig declared made as much noise as a heavy freight. “Your big buffalo, I bet, Chet,” he chuckled. “That’s the only chance you’ll have of knocking him over.” “Maybe not,” his chum said cheerfully. “Talking of knocking something over,” pursued Digby, “what are we going to have for supper? There’s nothing hearty left in my pack but a condensed milk tin. All these creatures seem to spot us half a mile off.” “The birds don’t,” said Chet, unmoved. “What have you in this outfit to shoot sage hens with?” growled Digby. “If you’d have let me bring a shotgun—” His grumbling was stopped almost instantly. Chet had been riding with the six-shooter loosened in its case while his eyes roved all about them as the horses walked. He threw up his left hand in warning to Dig and spoke in a low voice to Hero: “Whoa, Hero! Stand still!” Dig drew his black horse to a stop, being half a length behind the bay. Chet threw the long barrel of the pistol across his left forearm just as a flock of grouse whirred up from the grass ahead. Chet Havens’ arm-rest was as steady as an iron bracket. Hero stood like a statue. Crack! crack! crack! Three of the prairie hens fluttered to the ground while the others disappeared beyond the willows across the river. “Whew!” yelled Dig, clambering down from his saddle. “There’s our supper.” He threw his lines to his chum while he ran to pick up the birds. “By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland! you shot the head off of one of these, Chet.” “That is the first one I shot,” returned his chum calmly, pushing fresh cartridges into his revolver and leaving the hammer resting on an empty shell. “Talk about Davy Crockett!” chuckled Digby. “I believe you’ve got him beaten—with a six-shooter, anyway.” “Reckon you’re right,” admitted Chet. “Davy never saw such a gun as this. But what would we do with a long barreled squirrel rifle with the flint filed to a sharp point and a few grains of powder sprinkled in the pan? I bet we’d starve on this journey, Dig.” “Huh! Maybe. But we’re not going to starve to-night,” returned his chum with assurance, and tying the legs of the grouse to his saddle. This trail to Grub Stake had never been a wagon trail, and for some months it had scarcely been used; therefore its trace was dim in places. Chet had been told the landmarks to follow by his father, however, and through this first valley there was no chance of the boys going astray. They would not get out of this valley until the next day. The horses had not been driven hard, save when Poke ran away from the bear, but they had brought the boys a good many miles from Silver Run before sunset.